The Penguin, the Princess, and the FIST
by Greenstuff
Summary: Stan loans his two most senior agents to FIST, and they are less than impressed. Some undercover assignments come with ridiculous costumes.


Ray Jepson AKA Paul Weston AKA Richard Wilks had been running illegal gambling on everything from cock fighting to beauty pageants for fifteen years, but it wasn't until a ringer for the Miss Utah pageant turned up dead two hours before the finals that the Marshal service got involved. It took six months to put the operation together. There were a lot of factors to consider, and they needed just the right operatives for the job.

"You're loaning us to FIST?" Mary's raised eyebrows matched the disbelief in her tone.

Stan gave her a tight little smile. "They needed the best."

Mary reminded herself preening wasn't dignified. "What have we got then, cock fighting, horse racing, basketball?"

"Ballroom dancing?" Marshall looked up from the file he'd been reading, his brow furrowed.

Mary scoffed. "Right, in your _dreams_ doofus."

Stan cleared his throat. "Well, actually…" He shuffled his feet, looking down. "It's a ballroom dance competition."

Marshall grinned. He'd been taking dance lessons for three years. There was no way he was going to win a competition, but he knew how to throw a woman around the floor. Mary, on the other hand, had all the grace of an elephant after it gorged on the fruit of a marula tree.

"I do not dance." Mary said, her eyes wide with horror.

Stan crossed his arms across his chest, giving her his best I-am-the-chief glare. "You will learn. You have three weeks."

"This should be fun." Marshall said, not even trying to conceal his laughter.

Mary punched him, hard. "If you think I'm wearing one of those froofy outfits with feathers and diamonds, you are seriously deluded."

*** **Three Weeks Later** ***

"Laugh at me and I will shoot you." Mary warned before pulling back the curtain they'd erected for modesty sake in the small dressing room. She emerged, head high, clutching her shattered dignity like a lifeline.

Marshal snickered. He couldn't help it. She looked ridiculous.

Manuel, their costume designer had really gone all out. The lurid pink confection was about 60% stretch lycra and organza and 40% crystals, feathers and strategically placed sequins. The bodice was nearly transparent, except for the sequins and crystals forming a starburst pattern over her bust. The skirt flared in an explosion of white feathers and neon pink organza. But his favourite part had to be the sleeves. Tight and transparent to the wrist, the sleeves were hung with strips of the same luridly neon organza as the skirt. When she slapped him across the face the strips on her arm fluttered like hair in the wind.

"You look like a penguin." She muttered bitterly.

He smiled broadly. "You look like a princess."

"I hate you."

*** **Two Hours Later** ***

"That was… interesting." Carole Freeman had been judging ballroom dance competitions across America for thirty years, but she had never seen anything like this.

When couple number 2318 took the floor there had been a murmur at the judges table. No one had seen the pair before, but the way he held himself and the Manuel Pettyfer creation on her sensational (for a woman her age) body had everyone's attention. The Salt Lake City competition had something of a reputation for modest-to-the-point-of-boring costumes and technically perfect routines that could put a toddler with ADHD to sleep even if you fed him a handful of LSD twenty minutes before hand. Surrounded by modestly dressed, perfectly poised couples, the vivacious blonde and her lanky partner were a breath of fresh air.

Unfortunately, the minute the music started it became painfully evident that neither newcomer knew the first thing about ballroom dance. The blonde was clearly in the lead, jerking her lanky partner all over the dance floor, and cursing him with ever increasing volume and intensity every time he stepped on her toes. Still, Carole thought, making another mark on the paper in front of her, at least they were entertaining.

When the blonde suddenly abandoned her partner completely, sprinted across the floor and, with a battle cry worthy of the Apache warrior, tackled a spectator to the floor, things suddenly got _very_ interesting. Carole forgot all about couple 3147 (the petite red head and her six foot, black haired escort who hadn't missed so much as a hair flick all weekend). She, the rest of the panel, and every other couple except 3147 were glued to the action happening across the ballroom.

The back doors to the hall opened and a stream of official looking men in suits poured into the room. They surrounded the blonde and the man she had pinned beneath her. A short, balding man flashed a badge and announced in a sharp voice, "Ray Jepson, AKA Paul Weston AKA Richard Wilks AKA Manuel Pettyfer. You are under arrest…"

*****Later, at the Sunshine Building*****

"You could have waited until _after_ the number was over." Marshall said, handing Mary a cup of lukewarm coffee. "It wasn't like he was going to run until after he sabotaged the finals."

"And let you break my toes with your clown feet?"

"Maybe if you'd let me lead like you're supposed to…"

"Please!" Mary smirked, "You know as well as I do, you're the girl in this relationship."

Marshall rolled his eyes, "Well I do look better in a dress than you do."

Mary punched him, hard.


End file.
